The horror persists, as do I

New Year's Eve, a day of reflection and resolutions. Looking back, it's been almost 2 years since I last posted here.  Writing has always been my therapy. I can write out my thoughts far better than I've ever been able to verbalize them, and when I read them back, they become clear. The issues become smaller and the solution seems simpler.  The negative thoughts swirling in my head spill onto the page with every key stroke.  The clouds lift and my heart feels lighter.  So it's no wonder the last two years have been such a struggle.  I didn't take the time to do what makes me feel better; I just trudged forward in the quicksand. Each step getting harder and heavier. 

I've seen so many versions of myself since my last post, that it would be too hard to give a full update.  Maybe I'll hit on some of the biggies and let the rest fall by the wayside.  Speaking from the here and now, I think it can be summed up pretty simply: life is kicking me in the dick.

Here's the funny thing: I've checked all my major boxes for the things I dreamed of as a child. I have the marriage, the kids, the home.  I even have a job that I enjoy, and although it's not the fantastic writing career I wanted, I genuinely like what I do for work. But I'm a frequent rider on the struggle bus, medicated for survival, and still lacking a sense of joy and fulfillment.  Something is missing, either within myself or in the world around me. 

I can't attribute it to the heavy losses from the last couple years because it started well before that, although those certainly didn't make things any easier.  The biggest loss being the sudden passing of my babiest brother, Billy.  It was a typical Sunday morning when I saw my dad's number pop up on my phone, and I just knew it wasn't going to be good news.  I didn't realize just how true that was until he told me that Billy was gone.  My breath caught in my throat and there was no stopping the tears. I paced the floor of my living room and laundry room, asking the same things over and over, feeling lost and wanting nothing more than to be with my Dad in that instant.  The days that followed were a blur, as I made the 3 hour drive to and from my Dad's house multiple times, helped him with whatever I could, sat in a funeral home completely raw and wishing to crawl out of my own skin.  A full house celebration of life and long overdue family tattoos later, Billy's memory lingers.  The happy thoughts of the little guy, way too smart for his age, that I now see all over again through his daughter.  The smile that curls the edges of my lips upward when I recall the sarcastic roasting we used to give each other all the time. It's bittersweet knowing we should have had more time, yet I'm grateful for the time we did have, and for the time I've been given with my niece in his absence. Sometimes I'll look over at the wooden urn sitting on my mantle, and taunt him with a joke, as if he can hear and respond.  Other times I'll catch a glimpse of his rugby photo on my wall and feel a deep and resounding regret that I only saw him play once.  But when I hear his daughter talk, I see her daddy's mannerisms and know that he's never fully gone. He poured every bit of himself into that little girl.  She was his magnum opus.

In the midst of all of this, what I thought was a new beginning with my other brother turned upside down and showed me that blood relation doesn't automatically bring with it loyalty, trust, or respect.  After he had a major stroke, we reconnected, but his life was falling apart in other ways and it culminated with a 6 week stay at our house followed by just his son living with us for the next 8 months.  As we sunk deeper and deeper into debt, worrying how we were going to provide for our own children and trying to raise his child with absolutely no help from my brother or my nephew's mom, I finally asked them first to let me claim him on my income taxes (they said no), and then asked them to sign over temporary guardianship, which started a huge fight. Suddenly I went from being their beloved sister and savior, best aunt in the world, to some child-stealing monster. Knowing that they'd come into some money and would have a place to live again, I told them to either let me have guardianship or take their son back. They chose the latter.  And I haven't been allowed to see or speak to my nephew since.  The truth is, I don't miss my brother at all.  Losing contact with my nephew has been the worst part.  I hope that he'll be old enough to reach out on his own soon enough.  That's the only ray of hope in the dramatic mess of that whole situation.

If you know me, or have read my previous posts, it's obvious that I'm a basket case.  I've had a lifelong struggle with depression and anxiety (long before it was the trendy thing to admit), and after having my 3rd child, those mental health issues only worsened.  In early 2022, I finally put on my big girl panties and established care with a doctor, had blood work done to check my hormones (not surprisingly they were out of whack) and eventually admitted that I needed pharmaceutical assistance with the mental stuff.  With my hormones in balance and duoluxetine on deck, I thought I'd have a better grasp on life.  I don't daydream of unaliving myself anymore, which was the most urgent reason for my seeking medical help.  However, my typical optimism and positive outlook even in the thick of some serious struggles, is just gone.  Each day is a chore. Experiences that should be joyful are meh.  Sure, they're cool, but the bursting heart glee that I used to feel for every little thing has been replaced with a numbness.  I recognize that this isn't who I am, or who I've ever been, and yet I don't know how to change it.  In moments that should either be full of happiness or sorrow, I'm riding in the middle, mostly apathetic while still being aware that I should be feeling SOME emotion.  I can cry, I can laugh and smile, but I used to do all of those things with my whole being, inside and out.  Now, it's like muscle memory.  Milestones and precious moments with my children are muffled by this veil that seems to shroud everything from reaching my soul.  I exist around it instead of throughout it. I tolerate living the way a person tolerates the common cold. It's inconvenient but you keep trudging on.

You might not understand why I'm sharing this, and that's okay. If you've read this far, I'm impressed.  Even I get tired of thinking this way and talking about this. My hope in putting this out into the great white void that is the internet is that it will bring back some of the therapeutic properties that writing used to provide.  That it will create even the smallest spark that might ignite something greater. A passion that's been lacking for so long now that I've forgotten how it felt or why I felt it.  I've never been one to need life to be all rainbows. I am okay with adversity. I'm strong and determined.  I'm a survivor. I know this about myself, always have.  I just need to know that I won't always be like this. That I can find that drive and tenacity that I once had. That I can find joy in the littlest things like a pretty sunrise or the reflection of the sky in a raindrop.  I want to be delighted by trivial moments again.  And in lieu of actual therapy, I'm feverishly typing these embarrassing thoughts on the interwebs as a means to try to reignite something...anything.

Please...just a spark. 

A Neurodivergent Sunrise

Every day has it's sweet spot.  A fleeting instant that catches your eye and your breath at the same time.  An ordinary moment that feels like a miracle.  The problem is that most of us are too busy or absorbed in the difficulties of every day life, that we miss them.  But this morning, I caught it, and I'd like to share.

Before I continue, I'm compelled to say that I often wonder how many people have similar moments, and don't share them?  Maybe out of fear of judgement or shame for finding something so ordinary breathtaking?  That's why I keep most of these to myself.  In my head, I hear the voice of a well-meaning relative saying "she has too much time on her hands".  It was in response to a little family update letter I had sent with a Christmas card 19 years ago. As a new mom, I felt like I finally had something important enough to talk about, and wasted no time in doing so.  But that statement eliminated the joy of my intentions, and repeats in my head whenever I want to write about things like this.

Now back to the point.

This morning, I caught the day's sweet spot.  It was uncharacteristically quiet in the house.  The animals, kids, and hubby were all sound asleep.  I stood at the kitchen window, waiting for my cup of coffee to finish brewing, and that's when I saw it.  The orangey-yellow sunrise shedding light on the glittery frost that covered every single surface of the backyard.  I didn't see the grass in need of mowing, or the trellis that fell over in a windstorm that needs to be fixed.  I saw sweetness and simplicity and calm and home.  My home.  Imperfect, disordered, and slightly damaged, yet beautiful.

I snapped a picture, and wondered quietly if it would actually capture the scene as my mind did.  (Spoiler alert: of course it didn't.)  My breath caught, unable to pass the lump in my throat. My eyes welled slightly with tears.  It was the peace in those few minutes that hit me square in the jaw.  

As with all things, time marched on and I was pulled back to reality.  I poured creamer in my coffee, and took another peak out the window to try to recapture the magic.  It was gone, and so I went about the rest of my morning.  Business as usual.

I'm posting this not to sound like some philosophical 21st century Thoreau-type suburbanite on a journey of enlightenment.  If you know me in real life, you know that's hardly my vibe.  (Bitch, I'm just trying to get through each day!)  I'm writing this because surely I'm not the only person who is blown away by mundane things?!?  I can't be. So I guess you could say this is my attempt at normalizing our shared weirdness by exposing mine.

Hi, my name is Trish, and sometimes the sunrise and a messy backyard heals my soul a little.

Cracked and Glued

Random things trigger memories and sometimes the best way to make it make sense is to write it out.  That happened today and now I have a story to tell, but I need to preface this with a very important point: I do not share these stories for sympathy or attention.  My past is a part of what makes me who I am; the good, bad, and ugly.  I feel like I understand people better when I hear their stories, and that's what I hope for when I tell mine.  So please keep that in mind if you choose to read further.

When I was moving my Mom into residential care, she had a storage unit full of stuff, and she gave me the task of clearing it out.  I brought it all to my house and had her go through it to decide what to keep and what to sell or donate.  Of the sell/donate items, I was given her blessing to keep what I wanted, so I did.  What little I chose to keep immediately got tucked away in my bedroom closet, or stored in the catch-all spot in our media room, and forgotten.  The latter happens to be the place where my son found the item that triggered this post.

I recall this cloche vividly, though I was never particularly fond of it as a child.  It sat near the TV in every house we lived in since the mid-to-late 80s.  I'm not entirely sure why I kept it at the time, but I can guess it had something to do with it being a tangible piece of my childhood, which is a pretty rare thing.  Most material possessions or keepsakes have long since been lost or tossed.  

My son carried it to me today, asking why it's empty and if we can put food in it.  I tried to explain that's not what it is used for, that it's just for decoration, and then took it out of his hands to put it away.  As my palm landed on one of the cracks in the lid, my mind raced backward to a time when it wasn't cracked.  I thought back to when it was in pristine condition, and was one of my Mom's most prized pieces of decor.  No matter how many places we moved into, it always sat proudly on a shelf on the entertainment center with a doily underneath.  I assume it was a gift from my Grandma Wilson because one of her poems is written inside.  And I can assume it was a wedding or anniversary gift, based on the content of the poem.

If I think back to when it was whole, I'm also immediately reminded of it being thrown in the midst of one of my Mom and her husband's explosive fights, and the crashing sound it made when it hit the ground.  That single memory conjures up countless others. I remember how they'd fight and how I'd silently gauge their tones in anticipation for how it would escalate.  I got very good at predicting when the yelling was about to turn into smashing up the house, and when that would turn into physical violence.  I'm reminded of how myself, and sometimes my brother, would cautiously and quietly help pick up whatever got broken, trying so hard not to be seen as we erased all evidence of what just happened. I remember being extremely aware of my face, knowing that any sideways glances or furrowed brows could cause either of them to feel guilt and would reignite the fire, but direct it right at me.  It felt like walking a tightrope.  

After the lid of the cloche was glued back together, my Mom adjusted how she displayed it so that the cracks were off to the side, making them less obvious.  She didn't want anyone to see the brokenness of the decor, or of our family.  After a certain amount of time, she couldn't hide either, but she always tried.  To this day, she won't admit to anything unless it's to paint herself as the valiant protector of her children against a tyrannical husband.  The truth is, she didn't do anything to protect us. She taught us to hide the cracks, and pretend as if everything wasn't being precariously held together by super glue. 

In spite of the bad memories, I guess I kept this piece of decor because it is a stark reminder of what I grew up in vs where I am now.  When I look at the haphazard way it was put back together, I marvel at how something that was once in pieces on the floor of a trailer has managed to remain intact for decades.  I can profoundly relate to that. We've both been broken, and could have easily stayed that way; exposing our sharp edges and cutting anyone who dared to touch us.  The fact that my kids won't ever witness a tempestuous fight, or be left to pick up shattered pieces of household decor, is a testament to my own healing.  I've got a long way to go, even at 40, but I'm holding it together.  Me and my cloche.

Catch and Release

Motherhood is such a strange and torturous thing.  You literally grow a human being inside your own body, experience the worst pain to bring them into the world, pour every ounce of energy into raising them, only to have them eventually start a completely independent existence.  If you're lucky, that existence will be adjacent to your own, with varying degrees of attachment, but still very much separate.

Like all parents, we know the day will come when our child will be a legal adult, and will no longer depend on us in the way they had up to that point. It's this invisible, intangible finish line that they will reach sometime after they turn 18.  All the years leading up to that moment are a roller coaster in the best and worst ways.  So much information, so many skills, so much love needs to be instilled in this being, and even if you had infinite time, it wouldn't be quite enough to give you total peace.  But time marches on and you hope you provided all of the care they will need to be happy and healthy and successful at meeting the challenges they're about to face.  No matter how many times you thought "damn, why can't they grow up and move out already?!", the game changes completely when they finally do.

Yesterday was the big day for my very first baby.  While I have been relatively prepared for it to come, there was an internal list I had been keeping of all the things that needed to happen first.  However, my list really is just mine, and my very first baby decided she was ready now.  My list sits unchecked and I'm grieving that, as I also feel what I imagine is the typical sadness and nostalgia that comes with an emptying nest.  The sadness, the anger, the disappointment, the regret...it has all mixed together into this heavy sludge that feels like it's pouring into my lungs and stealing all the air.  Maybe that's just the tears, which were plentiful and painful last night, anticipating that moment when she'd get in her car and pull out of our driveway.  

There is so much I wanted to say and do, but I just lay in my bed, paralyzed by all the emotions.  The deep sobs wracked my body and I swear I cried an ocean.  I heard her singing to herself as she was packing, and the realization that this would no longer be a daily occurrence hit me like a speeding freight train. And I sobbed harder.  My unchecked internal list screamed inside my brain.  She hasn't graduated. She doesn't have a real place to live. She'll be so far away. We don't get to have a proper send-off.  I cannot emphasize enough the grief of losing all of these opportunities and being powerless to change it.

After a broken night's sleep, I woke up with red, puffy eyes and a gaping wound on my heart.  I went through the motions of getting ready for work.  I cried in the car on the way to the office, and then put every bit of myself into focusing on the tasks in front of me.  After several hours alternating between ignoring the pain and marinating in it, I knew I needed to write. It's the only way I can drain the sludge and start to breathe again.

I know that this is something most parents experience and that time will make it easier. I know that the end of one era is just the beginning of a new one. Logic reminds me that each phase of life comes with growing pains, and this is certainly no exception.  The relationship my daughter and I have is not ending; it's under construction.  We're creating room for what is to come.  But I also just need time to sit in these feelings for a minute, to mourn my child's childhood, before I can be completely happy for her adulthood. She isn't mine to keep.  The memories of late night feedings, field trip chaperoning, bedtime snuggles are what I can hold tight.  All the rest has to be released.

The Weight of Failure

I made a goal, I reached it, and I was still unhappy.  I still felt uncomfortable in my skin and tangled in thoughts of hatred and self-loathing. That was pre-covid.

The beginning of last spring, when we were first given the stay-at-home orders, was pretty great. The pressure to go and do and be all the things was lifted from my shoulders.  Justin and I watched a lot of shows and ate a lot of take-out because we were staying home, staying safe, and helping small business, of course.  It wasn't until right before summer that the joy of staying home began to change. My mental health, which is a powder-keg on a good day, teetered into a downward spiral the likes of which I've never experienced.  And that is saying a lot because shit was intense in my late teens/early twenties.  

As my mind started declining, my body mass began increasing.  At first, I brushed it off because we were in "the apocalypse" and who has time to care about health when the world is on fire?! I don't even know when I hit the point where I couldn't hide it anymore, but I can tell you that when the realization hit me, in my already precarious state of mind, I gave up. I gave up caring and started getting self-destructive.  Binge eating, not getting outside to walk, drinking every day, and not reaching out to anyone.  

Here is the absolute truth: I look at myself  and I feel like an utter failure. My outward appearance is a physical manifestation of what is happening inside. I really fooled myself into believing I had healed my relationship with who I am as a person and with food.  But the reality is that I hadn't. I had just learned to fake it enough to lose some weight, wear a smile and some better clothes, and pretend I was well.  I didn't fix the root of the issue so of course it resurfaced with barely any resistance. Healing is a journey, not a destination.  There is no magical finish line where everything is effortlessly perfect.  Healing is a verb.  I thought if I did X, Y, and Z, and hit that ever-elusive "perfect" number on the scale, that would be it. All the past trauma, all the self-esteem issues, all the internal self-abuse would evaporate into the ether.  

Spoiler alert: it didn't.

I still don't care about myself and therefore don't take care of myself.  Not on the inside or the outside. I just slide down my slippery slope, feeling powerless and numb. Meanwhile, my inner voice is relentless.  RELENTLESS.  I ping-pong back and forth between "fuck it, who cares" and "you're a weak piece of shit and know you should be doing better".  Every meal is a battle.  Every. Single. One.  When I was "doing good" aka going through the motions, I ignored the fact that what needed my attention wasn't my waistline.  It's easy to change your outward appearance compared to what it takes to change your mindset.  I'm good at hating myself.  It's easy. It's familiar. It's hard to unlearn that.  Even though it hurts, it's a hurt that I'm used to feeling.  

These things on their own are difficult enough to navigate that I'm not even going to attempt to articulate the added pressure of trying to be well enough to not pass this nonsense on to my children.  Motherhood brings with it a responsibility to do better and be better.  Not perfect, but better.  Better than my own childhood, better than my mental struggles, better than my insecurities and biases.  My poor, poor kids.  If they had any clue how sorry I am that I'm not the Mom they deserve....

All of that to say this: I suck. I'm lost and struggling. I don't know what "getting better" looks like. I've given up for the moment. Not to the point of hurting myself, but to the point of feeling like I'm just biding my time until the end.  

The Finish Line

It was a random day in mid-July when I hit my weight loss "finish line". I've towed that line for the last 2 months, with the typical 0-3 lb fluctuation, depending on the day, how much sodium I've consumed, whether I pooped, etc.  You know, sexy stuff.  I truly expected to be more proud of the accomplishment, but I've really just felt let down by it.  Not let down by myself, because I slayed a goal and I'm insanely proud of that. I'm let down by the fact that I've conquered a physical change, but all the insecurities and frustrations are still there.  I still hate my face.  I still see the mid-section pudge protruding through my high-wasted mom jeans. And now I also see deflated boobs (which used to be one of my best features), and a flapjack ass.  I'm older now, so I'm noticing old lady skin spots and my thick, frizzy hair is OUT OF CONTROL.  I can't hide behind the chub anymore, so I have to face all of these things and somehow learn to love them.  How do you do that?!

My husband has told me no less than a thousand times that he wishes I could see myself through his eyes.  He doesn't understand how much I wish I could, too.  I don't want to feel ugly and insecure and disgusted by my reflection.  I want to love that girl.  She deserves to be loved and I'm the only person who can love her the way she needs to be loved.  She has friends who love her.  She has a husband who loves her.  She has children who love her (most of the time).  She needs to look herself in the face and be cool with who is staring back.  To look deep into those hazel eyes and see all the brokenness she has fixed and all the ways she is strong and amazing and one of a kind.  Instead, I see that girl in the mirror and immediately avert my eyes b/c if I spend any time looking, I find all of the things wrong with her.  She's nothing special.  She's a teensy fish in a really big pond. No talents, no gifts to make the world a better place.  She's a terrible mom with a broken brain. How could I possibly love someone I hate?

There's this huge self-care, self-love movement happening all around.  It's in the news and on social media. Everyone tells you that you need to learn to love yourself, but I have yet to see a step-by-step tutorial on how to do that.  No one has ever shown me how it is done.  I wasn't born thinking I'm awesome.  When I say I'm awesome, it's usually sarcasm.  How does one find self-worth when they have lived 39 years without it?  I need tangible, real-life advice and steps to follow.  You can't just tell me to love myself and not explain how.  I DON'T KNOW HOW!!!!!

I knew a smaller body wouldn't be the magical fix for all my confidence issues.  I guess I just expected that the amount of pride I'd feel in accomplishing something would boost me up and that might lead to the next boost and the next one, until I'm riding a domino wave all the way to this enlightened state where I unapologetically love myself.  That didn't happen, though.  I hit my goal, and then sunk into one of the deepest depressions I've ever experienced.  There have been peaks out of the fog, but mostly I've spent 2 months wishing I didn't exist at all because being a human hurts. 

As I navigate this weird state of being, I wonder if I haven't figured this whole thing out by now, will it ever end?  Is this my usual seasonal birthday depression hitting, or is this just who I am meant to be? Should I settle in with a fluffy blanket and a nice hot cup of coffee and get comfy here? Accept that I'm not the person who will ever be secure with myself?  I mean, what the hell else can I possibly do that I haven't done already?! 

And this, my friends, is what it feels like at the finish line.  My advice is to run the other way.  It's not all it's cracked up to be here.

What's New Pussycat?

A blog post every 6 months is totally enough to keep follower engaged, right?!  *cue rolling tumbleweed*

Day to day life is pretty busy, but more than that, I've really been lacking inspiration and motivation when it comes to writing.  This is new territory for me b/c writing is my "thang".  To be completely honest, motherhood is sucking the life right outta me.  And I mean that in the best and worst possible way.  (If you have kids, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.)  My 3 kids consume every waking hour and that leaves so little energy to put into stringing semi-complete sentences together in a way that makes sense to other humans.  There's the metaphor folks like to throw around about self-care being the equivolent of filling an empty cup. Let's just say that my cup is not only empty, but is gathering dust and cobwebs.  So the idea of doing more than what I do already is unappealing and damn near impossible.

That being said, I felt moved to pop over to this here bloggy-blog and post.  Since it's not something I've given much effort in several months, I thought it wise to grab this moment by the balls.

First order of business is the obligatory update.  The most newsworthy happening since my last post has been my health journey (God, I really hate that term.  But I lack a better one, so I'm rolling with it...and puking in my mouth a little every time I use it.)  I'm 52 lbs down since March 2018, with a measly and stubborn 12 lbs until I can transition from weight loss to maintenance mode.  Something I'm extremely excited for, but feels just out of reach. The first question every person has if they haven't seen me in awhile is "how did you do it"?  If you're not a FB friend, then this will be new info. If you are a FB friend, this is old news and you probably want to skip over this paragraph.  Here's the magical trick: eat healthy and move your ass.  That's it. I use SparkPeople to track my calories and macros and until recently kept my daily calorie count between 1500-1800.  In an effort to break a nearly 2 month plateau, I am reducing my calories to 1300.  Once I reach my goal weight of 130 lbs, I'll gradually increase my calories to 1800-2000 per day and truthfully, I'll probably slack off of the food tracking and just keep making good choices.  I also walk or dance between 30-100 minutes as a form of "working out".  I do this 5-7 days per week because it's fun and keeps my stress levels slighly in check. I've recently added in some strength training stuff to get some booty gains.  Nothing wild and crazy; just squats and these torturous things called "fire hydrants".  None of this is going to change when I hit my goal weight.  My body likes to be in motion.

I am still working for the same company, working from home so that I can be with my kiddos.  It's a blessing and can be really freaking hard, too.  But I love it and wouldn't change it for the world.  I'm on my 2nd year as a board member for Labrys Society.  Last year I was just a plain ole' board member, but this year I'm the Secretary.  Or Madame Secretary, as I like to be addressed.  It makes me want to wear pencil skirts and pointy glasses.  The role doesn't bring with it much change from last year, except I have to be better at taking notes during the monthly meetings and then type them up and email them to the rest of the board.  And it puts me up close with a rotating cast of drag queens and kings, while raising funds for local non-profits.  It's pretty much the coolest thing in the world.

The hubs and I also became the new owners of a mobile movie business where we rent out a 12 foot tall inflatable screen and projector so people can host outdoor movie nights.  I don't anticipate that business will bring in much income, but it is a fun side hustle and is very closely related to our original dream of one day owning a video rental store. 

In other news, we're 47 days away from our first big vacation in YEARS!!  The 5 of us will be loading up in the family truckster aka Duncan Highlander and will be driving down for a full week of fun in Anaheim, CA.  We're doing Disneyland and Universal with 3 kids.  So thoughts and prayers are appreciated.

Back to my original train of thought re: my absence from blog-land, I have some words to share.  My blog reads very much like a diary.  This is where I come to dump my thoughts in the most eloquent way I know how.  It isn't a popular style of blogging in the grand scheme of things, but it's what works for me.  I have gotten more entrenched in Insta life and follow several local Mom bloggers.  These are women who are way cooler than me (not a high standard to live up to), and their blogs are prettier and more topic-centric.  For awhile I thought about scrapping this blog and trying to go for something that would garner a stronger following.  Something more "professional" and less personal.  Maybe even something that could bring in a small source of income.  That idea sent me into a spiral of anxiety because it meant that I would have to be able to come up with real content, make a presence on social media, and be dilligent.  It would become work and bring with it a whole slew of new ways to fail. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for reaching new goals, breaking out of comfort zones, and trying something new.  That is AWESOME.  I am just not there yet.  I'm not in a place where I can plan and post relevent content.  I am not in a place where what I experience or have to say would appeal to many people.  I have to come to terms with this fact and be okay with it, because while part of me wants to jump up on that bandwagon, another part of me feels like it's overdone and will be another passing fad by the time I get started.  I'm always a day late and a dollar short when it comes to trends and I don't necessarily feel called to use my writing skills in that way.  I do know I want to eventually do more than post my diary online for 80-100 people to read and I want to post more often.  Right now, though, I don't know what that looks like for me.  My family, work, and gypsy volunteerism consumes me.  Maybe I need to rearrange; or maybe I need to sit in this season and enjoy it until it passes and I have more freedom to pursue something solely for myself.  I can't really tell yet how this will all pan out.  In the meantime, I do plan to make more of an effort to post here, even if it's more journalling than anything else.  I hope you will keep reading, and I think it would be grand if a few new people stumbled their way over here and found something I said inspiring or interesting, or even funny.  And if anything changes and I discover my passion and the way to bring it out in some creative way, you know I'll share that here, too, because oversharing is also my "thang".